


Now, Then

by marksmanfem



Series: Boondock Saints OC Arc [18]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Backstory, Beginnings, Endings, F/M, Foreshadowing, Friendship, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, Multi, Relationship(s), Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-06-03 06:56:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6601219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marksmanfem/pseuds/marksmanfem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone looks back a little at the last coupel of years and how things have changed among them. And, even as bigger change looms on the horizon, how much everything has stayed the same. 18th in my Boondock Saints OC arc. Rated E for smut, language, and brotherly violence. Multi-chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Now: January 21, 1999   
  
It's been a long three weeks since New Year's Eve; not that anything else bad happened. I'm just absolutely exhausted and so, so very busy. After that night at McGinty's, Connor and Murphy and I talked surprisingly little about what happened in the alley.   
  
Connor meant it when he said we're good, and I decide to take him at his word. I still have some sleepless nights, and the nightmares aren't completely gone, but I find that I'm not as disturbed by what I did so much that night as I am by the situation as a whole. I went through something horrible, and with some help I'm figuring out how to move on.   
  
And I'm trying very hard to be okay with that.   
  
I decide very suddenly on the second of January that I need something of a fresh start. Since I have no intention of changing jobs, cities, or boyfriends, moving apartments is the most logical option left. Plus, with all the time the guys are spending at my place these days, it's starting to feel kind of cramped in here. Although my lease is up the first week of February, my landlord agrees to let me switch to a larger apartment in the building. As something of a late Christmas present, he even waives me paying a higher deposit or any fees.   
  
"Shouldn't've had ye sign yer lease when ye did, anyway, ye bein' so beat up an' such. Weren't in yer right frame of mind. Since I didn't send flowers or nothin', an' you're gonna be payin' more fer th' new place anyway, I figure I get t'keep me good tenant, and ye get a bigger place in return. Works out fer both of us."   
  
Did I mention just about everyone in Boston is either Irish or Italian?   
  
Two weeks and a lot of cleaning later, I am moved into my new two-bedroom with surprisingly little muss or fuss, mainly thanks to a volley of guys from McGinty's willing to move me in exchange for beer and wings. Not a bad deal at all. With so many people helping, I actually manage to pack, move, and unpack in only four days.   
  
I suppose it helps that my old apartment was pretty bare. No knick-knacks, wall decorations, or anything. Just clothes, dishes, and a few pieces of furniture. I have my television set, my videotapes, and a couple of souvenir stuffed animals from the carnival, but other than that, my old place was fairly modest and somewhat empty. My new place is downright Spartan.   
  
I have a whole empty second bedroom now, one I could set up as an office or a guest room or anything else I want, I suppose. I start to worry that I'm doing this home decorating thing all wrong, that I'm supposed to have framed photographs of my "gang" or little statues and things that I have to keep dusted or piles of books that I never read.   
  
I'm probably doing this adult thing all wrong, too; I mean, the people on TV have families with kids running around, decorative table lamps that the kids knock over and get in trouble for breaking, couch pillows that match the curtains, that sort of thing, right? Isn't that what normal people do?   
  
After a few days of fretting, I decide if I want things decorated so badly, I should just dump the project on Connor the next time I start freaking out over it. I mean, he did a great job at Christmas; this shouldn't be too much harder, yeah?   
  
And then there's work.   
  
Since I started back after New Year's, the executives from head office have been making rounds and inspections, trying to shake things up and streamline the corporate structure and make everything run more efficiently and effectively (those are our buzzwords of the month). Jen has been relying on me more than ever to get ducks in rows and letters crossed and dotted. I don't have to work weekends anymore, and my hours are thankfully becoming more regular, if a tad on the late side, but I feel like I'm trying to cram a week's worth of tasks into each work day.   
  
"Go home. You look beat," Jen tells me, taking the stack of files from my hands. I blink in surprise, not having realized she was even in the room with me.   
  
"Do what?" I ask intelligently. I glance at the clock, thoroughly confused. "It's only noon-thirty. We have conferences in an hour and files to go through. I was going to be here until seven at least, and tomorrow-"   
  
"The conferences have all been postponed until after the meeting with the execs tomorrow morning, your files are as thorough and up to date as any supervisor could ever possibly hope for, and you've already been here since six-thirty this morning. Also, I'm not sure if you're aware, but you just referred to the time of day as 'noon-thirty.' Referring to non-existent times is a definite sign of fatigue."   
  
She continues to stare me down, but her eyes show nothing but concern. "And I know you're technically better, but you're still healing, Grace. You got hurt, and I know you took time off," she says, waving off my imminent protests, "because I was the one who scheduled and cleared it for you. And now I'm clearing you to take an afternoon and go do something fun. Go to a spa, go to the antique store, get a terribly decadent dessert and eat it by yourself. I need you at your absolute best for tomorrow's morning meeting. The execs are going to be doing a lot of restructuring and staff reassigning, and I want your opinion on all of their decisions. I told you before that everyone here notices all the hard work you put in, and I meant it. So go relax and do something fun and maybe not look like you put your eyeshadow under your eyes instead of over them."   
  
"I don't wear eyeshadow," I sigh, knowing she's right. Maybe I could go home and take a long nap.   
  
"Fine. But if the entire operation crashes and burns because I wasn't here this afternoon, don't blame me. I was going to stay."   
  
"Get," she shoos me away, flapping a file in my direction. "I'll see you tomorrow."   
  
Freedom is a heady feeling. I have hours until the guys are done at work. I don't have any way to track Rocco down, so I really do have the entire afternoon just to myself to do whatever I want. And I think what I want is to go look at pretty things at the antique shop and then sleep until someone gets home from work and wakes me up.   
  
Preferably two someones...preferably in interesting ways. That's definitely the plan.   
  
As I start layering on my winter gear I realize the last time I visited the antique store was when Connor took me for our anniversary. That's the day I found The Ring, the most gorgeous ring in existence. My eyes flick automatically to the Celtic knot on my left hand, a smile lifting the corners of my mouth.   
  
Okay, the second most gorgeous ring in existence.   
  
Maybe it's still there. It fit like it was made for my hand when I tried it on, and I have to admit I was more than just a little reluctant to hand it back over. But anything that gorgeous must have been sold by now, so I don't let my expectations rise too high as I open the door to my favorite antique store.   
  
Amelia is working and looks surprised, pleased, and relieved to see me. She immediately puts down the ring she's polishing to step around the counter and pull me into a hug. I'm startled, as she's always been friendly but not necessarily affectionate before.   
  
"I asked Jen where you'd been when she came in before Christmas, and she told me what happened!" Amelia explains as she releases me. "I was worried sick until she came by last week with an update. How are you feeling?"   
  
"I'm fine," I reply automatically. She shoots me a skeptical glance, her eyes sweeping over my face as she picks up the wedding band that looks suspiciously like platinum and resumes polishing. I know the bruises are all faded, but there is a faint shadow over my cheekbone, a light scar that will probably fade eventually.   
  
"I really am," I smile. "It's just been a long couple of months, and I'm tired. Ready for winter to be done, but we've still got a few months left. Maybe I need to move south and find a warmer climate. Somewhere sunny that smells like saltwater with tanned men in monokinis serving colorful, fruity concoctions."   
  
Amelia grins, replacing the ring in its display box inside the counter. I look down at the rings in that section, disappointed when I don't see The One among them. Following my line of sight, Amelia's smile softens as she says, "It's in the back being held for someone making payments. I'd bring it out, but it's technically bought now. I'm sorry, hun."   
  
I shrug, smiling sadly as I lean down to look over the new arrivals. "It wasn't meant to be, that's all. I'll always have the memory of trying it on."   
  
She snorts, tossing her polishing cloth into an open drawer. "Speaking of 'meant to be,' where are those gorgeous fellows you came in with? If you've got a spare, I'd be happy to take one of them off your hands."   
  
"Working, the both of them. Too much, but I love them anyway. I'll let you know if one of them gets some time off though," I reply, straightening up. "I know I just got here, Amelia, but I'm only this second realizing how absolutely beat I am. I think I'm going to go nap until next week. Thanks for missing me, though."   
  
"I'd really rather you just come in more often, but I'm glad you're feeling better. Stop in soon, or I'll make Jen drag you back here."   
  
I wave good-bye and step back out of the store. A frigid blast of air slaps me in the face, and I hurry to the nearest subway station. Normally I would head back to my place, as I have actual heat in my apartment, unlike Connor and Murphy's flat which has...well, windows. But all I can think about is stripping down and wrapping up in the wonderful arctic weather blanket they gave me for Christmas. It is hands-down the most wonderfully, snuggly thing I've ever wrapped around myself, I cannot wait to pass out, completely cocooned in it.   
  
The subway ride is blissfully short, and I'm raising the elevator gate at Connor and Murphy's flat before I know it. In even less time, I'm down to my underwear (seriously, this blanket is warm) and wrapped up in my new favorite possession in the world.   
  
As I'm drifting off, a stray thought floats by, as they tend to do right before I fall asleep. Why did she asked me about both boys? I only went in with Connor that day; Murphy was stuck cleaning up an accident at work.   
  
Maybe she just got confused, I think as the warmth sinks into my bones. But then, how'd she know there are two of them? But like most of the thoughts I have right before I fall asleep, this one drifts away to be forgotten, and I blithely sink into blessed unconsciousness.   
  
…..   
  
Now: January 21, 1999; slightly later that day   
  
Finally fucking done for the day, Murphy thinks, dragging his weary body onto the elevator. Except for the few days he and Connor took off to be with Grace, he's been working pretty solid twelve to fourteen hour shifts, signing up for as much overtime as Jim will allow. Connor's been doing the same, and they're both pretty damn wrung out, but it's worth it. Just another few months, and they can scale it back a bit.   
  
Thank God he's done for the day, though.   
  
Connor isn't done for another two hours, and though he would love to see her now, Grace said she wouldn't be done until after seven tonight. No telling what Roc is up to, so now is the perfect time to get a little extra shuteye. He's on the early shift again tomorrow, on the line at 4:30, so if he wants to spend any real time with Grace tonight, he'd best get some sleep in now so he'll at least be awake when she gets off work.   
  
He's almost lulled to sleep in the elevator but stays conscious long enough to lift the gate and stumble inside. Coat, boots, shirt and pants on a pile in the floor. Rosary on its nail on the wall. Murphy turns towards his bed only to spot a familiar lump mummified in the thermal blanket on his mattress.   
  
The corner of Murphy's mouth turns up as he steps quietly over to her, gazing down as his mind wanders back to the first night he met her. Their first conversation (if you could call it that) was in this same spot, although she was a bit less covered.   
  
Murphy grins to himself at the memory of Grace, lobster red with that gorgeous, full-body blush of hers, trying to desperately to cover her nakedness under his brother's boxers while Connor snores unconcernedly next to her as the lass freezes her...well…   
  
…   
  
Then: February 28, 1997   
  
Rocco's been complaining about his job all night again. Murphy listens as patiently as he can; he sympathizes with Roc, sure, but the man works for the fucking maffia. Does he seriously expect sunshine and daisies and parades for a package boy?   
  
Murphy hopes Connor will be here soon; his nerves on edge for some reason, like he's waiting for something to happen, and he's pretty sure he'll snap on his friend if something doesn't change the subject soon.   
  
Then the pub door opens, and judging by the yells and greetings, Connor must've finally arrived. Rocco elbows Murphy in the side, and he turns, wondering why Connor's late arrival has garnered so much attention. Murphy's eyes land on the woman sticking shyly to Connor's side, a tentative, nervous smile lighting up her face.   
  
Oh.   
  
He is struck by the sudden and absolute realization that she, this complete and total stranger, is absolutely what he's been waiting for all night.   
  
Maybe longer.   
  
Not that Murphy would ever admit it to Connor, but he can absolutely understand why his brother has been spending so much time on the subway and doesn't blame him for it one bit. This girl…   
  
There's a strange, twisting feeling in Murphy's gut that he files away to think about later, and shrugs one shoulder, popping his neck and donning his habitual, smirking armor.   
  
"So's this th'girl ye been stalkin' on the train, there, Connor?"   
  
Her face reddens to a wonderfully deep shade of crimson, and Murphy finds himself thinking he's not given enough consideration to that particular color before; seems like something he'd like to see more often. Reminiscent of roses? Maybe, but something a little deeper, with a bit more substance.   
  
Predictably, his attempt to embarrass Connor hits right on the mark, and his brother responds with a slap to the side of Murphy's head, snapping, "Watch yer fuckin' mouth, Murphy. Don't scare this one away like ye do all th'ones ye try to bring home!"   
  
Pot and kettle, dear brudder, Murphy thinks, his grin spreading. He opens his mouth to say something to the girl, but Connor interrupts with a terse, "Shut it, Murph, I need t'speak wit'ye."   
  
As the girl introduces herself to Rocco, Murphy silently thinks to himself that despite her nervousness and rapid-response embarrassment, her name suits her well. He turns the name over in his mind, trying it out mentally, and decides there are a few situations where he'd absolutely love to say it. Against her mouth she as trembles in front of him, eyes closed and lips parted just a bit; against her collarbone as he tastes the salt of her sweat, with her fingers threading fiercely into his hair; into the darkness beneath her, watching that fucking gorgeous flaming blush spread over her entire body as she sinks onto him-   
  
"Verdammt, Murph, pass doch auf!" Connor snaps, switching to German.  _ Damn it, Murph, will you pay attention? _ _   
_   
"Was ist dein Problem, Bruder? Wir machen nur höfliche Konversation."  _ What's your problem, Brother? We're just making polite conversation. _ _   
_   
Though he's listening to Connor, his eyes stray back to the lass again, watching the emotions dance across her face as she talks to Rocco. She definitely has one of the most expressive faces he's ever seen; he doubts she could hide anything she's feeling.   
  
Probably every tiny flicker of emotion plays across her face like a movie; if a simple conversation with Rocco can animate her that much, Murphy wonders just how expressive her face would be if he were to-   
  
"Ich nehme Grace mit zurück in die Wohnung. Kannst du heute Abend bei Rocco schlafen?"  _ I'm taking Grace back to the flat; can you crash at Rocco's tonight? _ Connor is ernest, more serious about this girl than Murphy has seen in a while, and a small, guilty twinge nags at his gut at the path his thoughts have been wandering down the last few minutes. Then he glances at her again, and in the span of a single breath, that twisting feeling rushes back in to replace the guilt.   
  
He's known this girl for three minutes, and already he can't think straight around her. What the hell is that all about?   
  
"Bist du sicher, dass du keine Hilfe brauchst mit der?" Murphy offers innocently. "Oder ich könnte sie als Entschuldigung betrachten für die Scheiße, die du letzte Woche bei der Arbeit angestellt hast. Ich nehme sie dir gerne aus den Händen, wenn du dich nicht dazu in der Lage fühlst."  _ Are you sure you don't need help with this one? Or I could consider her an apology for the shit you pulled at work last week. I'd be happy to take her off your hands if you don't feel up to it. _ _   
_   
Connor's face turns dark for a moment, drawing Murphy's attention completely back to the conversation. "Behalte deine verdammten Hände bei dir, Bruder."  _ Keep your damn hands to yourself, Brother. _ _   
_   
There's no mistaking Connor's tone or posture, even though Murphy hasn't seen his brother this worked up over a woman in a long time. He's completely gone over her, and again, Murphy can't blame him one bit.   
  
"Soll ich schon einmal die die Hochzeitseinladungen verschicken? Du hast heute Abend zum ersten Mal mit dem Mädchen gesprochen. Warum ist das so wichtig?"  _ Should I start sending out the wedding invitations? You just talked to this girl for the first time tonight. What's the big deal? _ _   
_ __   
Anything to get under Connor's skin when he's this worked up. If Murphy is going to be stuck with Rocco's whiny ass all night (most likely even whinier since he just got slapped by the new waitress), then he's going to get all the entertainment he can out of Connor while his brother is still here.   
  
Connor's jaw clenches suddenly, the vein in the middle of his forehead standing out, and Murphy wonders if he's somehow gone too far. Connor's not ever been this touchy over a girl he just met, at least as far as Murphy can remember, and he hasn't been this touchy about a girl at all, short of the time Murphy made the stupid mistake of drunkenly hooking up with Connor's steady girlfriend at their high school graduation party.   
  
A mistake that, up until now, Murphy has been very careful to never repeat.   
  
The punch catches Murphy off guard, and he has to grab at the edge of the bar to keep from hitting the floor as his stool wobbles dangerously.   
  
"Just fuckin' do this fer me, Murph, a'right?" Connor turns away, taking Grace's hand and pulling her through the crowd toward the front door. She glances back over her shoulder at Murphy, shooting him an apologetic half-smile before turning back to follow Connor into the night. Just before she disappears from sight, Murphy throws out one last half-hearted, sarcastic remark, a last ditch attempt to get under Connor's skin, but he's so dazed he doesn't even remember what he's said by the time he's done speaking.   
  
Shit, Murphy thinks to himself as he turns back to Doc. He hunches down over the bar, resting his elbows on the counter and burying his face in his hands as Grace's parting smile floats through his mind on repeat. I'm fucking sunk. God damn my rotten fucking luck.   
  
"Keep the whisky comin', Doc," he groans. "Need t'ferget some shit."   
  
Four hours later, after more whining from Rocco and finishing the better part of a full bottle, Murphy stumbles into the flat, praying to God that he doesn't interrupt anything while secretly wishing he might catch a glimpse of some lovely bit of Grace to at least fuel his fantasies. Connor's snores jack-hammer deep into Murphy's booze-sodden brain, and he glances down at his ass of a brother in irritation.   
  
To his surprise, he finds a naked, highly flustered Grace attempting to cover up with nothing more than his brother's underwear.   
  
"I don't suppose you have a spare blanket or something I can borrow?"   
  
Her words take a minute to sink in through the layers of alcohol, and his eyebrows lower in concentration as he tries to figure out what it is about her blush that he finds so absolutely intriguing. Seriously, where has he seen that shade of red before? Then he remembers he's supposed to answer her.   
  
"Nah, but I s'pose you c'n always crash over here wit'me. Y'ain't gonna get Connor to wake up 'less you run over him wit' a garbage truck or somethin'."   
  
Though it's truthfully happened with a few girls Connor has brought home before (and his brother didn't mind then), Murphy wonders for a moment if Connor will care this time. Something about the way he was acting back at McGinty's gives Murphy a moment of doubt, but he shrugs off the feeling, figuring he can't let the poor girl freeze to death.   
  
And surely Connor would rather Murphy be polite than chase her off with rudeness. Murphy is only being a good host; even his Ma would approve.   
  
...Maybe.   
  
Probably not.   
  
Murphy stumbles to the foot of his mattress to wait for her, shucking his clothes in an unconscious habit so deeply ingrained that he only thinks to stop just as he's about to slip off his boxers, feeling the lass's gaze burning into his back.   
  
He glances at her curiously.   
  
"Ya comin', girl?"   
  
"I…uh…hmm." She looks down at herself, still covered only in Connor's underwear (barely), and Murphy feels an unfortunate twitch below his waist as he takes in the bare expanse of her (finely shaped) limbs. He can practically feel the heat of her embarrassment and wonders how she can possibly feel cold right now.   
  
Though he allows his smirk to come out again, he takes mercy and tosses his shirt in her direction, turning away as she drops the boxers and slips the shirt over her head before he has a chance to see (much of) anything.   
  
Murphy plops down on his mattress, stretching out and holding his arm up so she can get under the blanket. After another moment of hesitation, she finally seems to resolve herself to the inevitable and closes the distance between them. Murphy manages to hide a smile as she sighs happily while he tucks the blanket around them. Just when he thinks she's dozed off, she speaks.   
  
"Your brother won't mind? I mean, I just kind of met him for the first time tonight, and I don't want him to think that I…well…that I would…uh…"   
  
That you would what? Murphy thinks. Do all the things with me I was thinking about back at the bar? That you would have hours of the hottest, most intensely passionate fucking your heart and body could desire? That you would get as screwed up and spaced out over me as I am over you? That you would curse the rotten fucking luck that had Connor working late the last couple of months instead of me?   
  
"That y'would what?" He settles for asking. The lass must think he's teasing her again, but if she took the time to ask him, he'd admit his smile is more wry than teasing this time. She glares and jabs him in the ribs, startling a less-than-manly yelp from him. While he would normally be annoyed at such an action from another one of Connor's conquests, God help him, he actually thinks it's kind of...cute.   
  
Fucking hell.   
  
"Don't be a jerk. I'm cold, you're tired and drunk, and I don't want your brother to think I'm more of a ho-bag than he probably already does."   
  
He openly grins at her now, his face coming as close to hers as his self-control will allow. He fights the intense itching in his fingers to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear and simply lets the smirking mask cover his emotions again.   
  
"Ho-bag? Is that th'technical term, then, lass? Used t'call 'em street walkers and prostitutes in me Ma's day; I'll have t'update her on th'new terminology."   
  
She sighs and turns over, pressing her frozen feet to his legs, and he jerks in shock. Jesus, no wonder she was desperate enough to share his bed. He pulls her a little closer as she snugs the blanket tighter around them, hoping she doesn't notice how his breath hitches when her hand comes to rest on his shoulder.   
  
Or how his heart rate speeds up when she finally rests her head on his bicep.   
  
As tired and drunk as he is, he still manages to stay awake long enough to listen to her breathing slow and even out until she's finally limp and relaxed in his arms. He leans down just a bit to rest his nose on top of her head, inhaling deeply as his eyes slide shut. He has no idea what kind of shampoo she uses, but damned if he's not thinking of looking for a bottle just to keep around now.   
  
He allows himself one brief, gentle stroke of his fingertips through her hair before wrapping his arms around her in as much of an embrace as he thinks he can get away with.   
  
The image of her smiling back over her shoulder at him in McGinty's is the second to last thing that goes through his head before he falls asleep. The very last is that even if she only stays with Connor, Murphy hopes she'll be around for a while.   
  
And if she is, maybe...just maybe...she might consider giving him a shot.   
  
…   
  
Now:   
  
Murphy slips onto the mattress next to Grace, lifting the blanket and gently tugging her unconscious form closer until she grumbles and rolls into his embrace, still asleep. She growls incoherently and nuzzles her face into the groove between his neck and his shoulder as he settles the blanket over them. He falls asleep almost instantly, though he just has time to wonder how, even under a blanket meant for camping in Alaska winters, this woman can still have feet like blocks of ice. Then he's out and dreaming of the first night he met her and how he wishes it might have ended a little differently.


	2. Ch 2

Now: January 21, 1999; later that same evening

“Can you bring me those sheets?” Grace calls from the bedroom. Switching off the television, Connor scoops up the pile of linens and sets off after his girl. He finds her divesting her bed of pillows and blankets only to reveal a bare mattress.

“Ye ferget ye did laundry t’day, lass? Leave t’sheets fer last again?” he asks, setting the pile of sheets on her dresser. She turns an incredulous look on him, the silence stretching out long enough for him to realize he’s missed something obvious, though he can’t for the world think of what it might be..

“We never made the bed up, Connor,” she finally says, and he’s relieved, though confused.

“Sure, we did,” he says, shaking out one of the sheets. She shakes her head, and without asking, he immediately grabs the other one and hands it to her. He can never keep straight which one goes where and simply assumes she’ll let him know. 

“If you’ll remember,” she says with mock sternness as she spreads the bottom sheet out, “I came in to make the bed the first night we were here, and someone insisted on christening the room right away, despite the twelve men in the living room drinking beer and eating wings. And I know they heard us, Connor. ‘T-Duff’ was giving me this weird, way-to-go conspiratorial look all night until his brother whacked him upside the head.

“As well he shoulda,” Connor replies, grabbing one side of the sheet. “Nobody eyes my girl like dat but me.

“And your brother,” she mutters, stretching the sheet across the top of the bed until she can pull it under the corner farthest from Connor. “And every time since then whenever I’ve tried to make the bed, you or Murphy or both have found some way or reason to distract me.

“Ye complainin’ ‘bout our methods?”

“Not even a little,” she grins in reply.

As they tuck corners and turn down tops, his eyes stray to her bent form over and over. Whenever she catches his eye, she smiles at him, a hint of blush tinging her cheeks. Even after almost two years, she still blushes when she smiles at him, and he feels that sappy, absolutely-fucking-gone smile spreading over his face.

“I love ye,” he says suddenly. He’s standing at the foot of the bed, holding one of her pillows in his hands, and he has no idea where the words came from just now, only that he has to say it right now. And probably a few more times before the night is over.

“Where did that come from?” she asks quietly, unknowingly echoing his thoughts. “Are you okay? You’ve been kind of quiet since Murphy went home.” She moves towards him, and he drops the pillow on the bed, reaching for her. Her arms automatically circle his waist, and he pulls her in tightly, startling a quiet “oof” from her as he presses the air from her lungs with the force of his hug.

“Long day at work,” he murmurs into her hair. “Dat’s all. Thinkin’ ‘bout ye all day. Only wanted t’get back here an’ hold ye.” His hands stray lower, his fingers pressing into her hips through the thick material of her sweat pants.

“Well, mayhap do a bit more dan just holdin’, but ye get t’idea.”

He feels the laughter resonating through her body, and she tilts her head back to look up at his face. He grimaces internally as his eyes sweep over the shadowy scar on her cheek, but he is careful to keep his expression still. 

“Missed ye t’day,” he says softly, touching the tip of his nose against hers. He doesn’t think he’ll ever figure out what it is about Grace that turns him into someone his movie heroes would openly mock, but right now he couldn’t give less of a fuck if he tried.

She smiles in response, pulling away to shuck her clothes and toss them in the hamper. She slides into bed, turning back to him and holding her arms open in invitation. Connor strips in record time and clicks off the light switch, crossing the bed and reaching for her in the same movement. 

This bedroom is darker than her other one, facing a different direction on the building with less outside light, so he can’t see her face when she says, “Turn around, Connor.”

“Lass?” He pauses, confused. “What do ye--”

“I’ll only bite a little,” she interrupts, and he can hear the suppressed laughter in her voice. “Trust me. Just let me drive tonight.” She pushes lightly at his shoulder, encouraging him to face away, and he finally obeys, pushing until his back is pressed against the silky softness of her bare skin.

Her arm underneath him reaches across his chest to brush fingertips over his stomach, and he shivers, turning his head so that he can feel her breath on his face. He reaches up, brushing his knuckles over her cheek, feeling the curve of her smile and the heat of the flush he knows is burning her skin right now.

Her free hand traces a tickling line down his extended arm, trailing over his ribs before coming to rest on his hip. Her fingers press into his skin possessively, and he feels her sigh in contentment before her hand moves again. When she speaks, her lips brush over the rim of his ear, and he can feel the vibrations of her speech all the way down his spine.

“I figured this would be good for more than just an alarm clock. Plus, if you’re going to miss me while I’m gone, I might as well give you something good to be miserable over.”  
…  
Then: August 13, 1998

When Connor wakes up that morning, he doesn’t know one of his coworkers was robbed and beaten the night before. He doesn’t know that he’ll get the news that afternoon and spend the rest of the day in the foulest mood possible. He doesn’t know that he’ll take his anger and frustration out on Grace, sparking their worst argument to date, a fuck-up so bad that as he chases her down the sidewalk he feels an icy trickle of fear run down his spine that maybe this time he’s fucked everything up for good. He doesn’t know that the night will end with their relationship stronger than ever, with Grace becoming even more entwined into his and Murphy’s lives.

Hell, if you asked him right now, Connor wouldn’t even know his own name.

All he knows is that in his twenty-something odd years, he’s never woken up feeling this absolutely amazing in his entire life.

“Fuck, lass,” he murmurs, his eyes still shut tight against the early morning light. Her lips ghost down the side of his neck, and her fist tightens around the base of his cock. One of her legs is thrown over his, her best (but still futile) attempt to hold him still as she gropes him awake.

“That’s the idea, Connor,” she murmurs. He’s surprised and pleased at how bold she’s being, not just taking the lead physically, but also her aggressive tone. He’s known for a while that she’s had it in her to take control, especially since the night she practically mauled Murphy, and he’s glad his patience has finally paid off.

His wandering thoughts are snapped back to the present as she sharply nips at his earlobe, squeezing the base of his cock at the same time. He sucks in a sharp, startled breath, and she soothes the sting with the tip of her tongue as she slowly slide a tight fist up his dick.

“Feels fuckin’ perfect,” he breathes. She shifts behind him, pressing even closer against his back, and he can feel the hardened points of her nipples against his skin, practically begging him to roll over and pay attention. He starts to turn, but she tightens her leg around his hip and releases his cock to slap her hand firmly across his lower belly.

“Stay.”

“God in Heaven,” he pants, as every muscle in and around his abdomen clenches eagerly. “Tell me like dat every time, and I’ll do any fuckin’ t’ing ye want.”

She presses her hips against his ass, and his heart skips a beat at the heat pooling between her thighs. He swallows convulsively, forcing saliva down his arid throat as her hand takes up its steady, punishing grip on him once more. She starts up a torturously slow rhythm, and he can feel the tip of her nose just behind his ear as she exhales down his neck. Shivers cascade through his flesh; his fingers flex, one hand digging hard into the mattress as his jaw tightens.

“Lass, I--”

“Just feel me, Connor. Don’t talk, don’t argue, don’t try to take control. Just relax and let me do this for you.”

“I...want to, girl, I just...need to...can I just...fuck, do dat again...aye, aye, just...please, lass…”

His plea is cut off as another gasp forces its way from his chest when she lightly scrapes a fingernail over the sensitive skin just behind his balls.

Connor is shocked at his reactions: he doesn’t ask women for things, and he sure as hell doesn’t beg, but he’s doing both for this girl, and he’d for damn sure do it again as long as she doesn’t stop--

It takes all his self control not to make an extremely shameful noise when she does release him suddenly, but instead of moving away, she takes his hand and places it on her raised hip, only to loop her arm back under his and resume her grip and motion.

“You can touch me here, Connor, but that’s it. Now, pay attention to what I’m doing or I really will stop.”

“Aye,” he moans, his fingers frantically clinging to her thigh. “Aye, lass, whatever...what...ever ye say.”

Her lower arm, the one underneath him that’s been motionless until now, traces lazy, featherlight fingertips down his chest, tickling over his belly before scraping their way back up. She brushes softly over his nipple, finding a lazy, stroking rhythm almost in time with her lower strokes.

“I--”

“Shhh,” she hushes him, kissing the juncture of his neck and shoulder, pressing her lips against the sensitive skin. “Are you close, Connor? Do you need me to do something different?” She punctuates her sentences by contracting the fist on his cock and scraping her nails over his hardened nipple, and his balls clench as he nearly comes right then.

“Jesus, girl...I...I...don’t need one fuckin’...thing different. Can...can ye do...dat again?”

“Say ‘please’,” she breathes, her lips brushing his shoulder.

“I…” Dammit, asshole, just say it! “Please, lass, could ye...please do dat again?”  
…  
Now:

“Lass, please, can ye...again?”

He can feel her smile against his shoulder as she kisses him again.

“I love you, Connor.”

And then he’s rushing over the edge of a cliff, spiraling in a hot, fantastic rush of darkness, and he’s just so...fucking...gone.

“Love ye wit’ every’tin’ I’ve got, Grace.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Then: January 8th, 1999**

"Thanks for meeting me for lunch, Roc," I say as I slide into the booth. "I feel like I haven't seen you since McGinty's. Do you think you'll make it to the moving party? I'm ordering wings for everybody from that place you like so much.

Rocco glances up, something of a forced smile on his face before his eyes slide away. "I dunno, hun. I gotta find out if I'm working then, but I can try."

I frown, searching his face for some sort of hint as to what's going on.

"Did something happen at work? Are you in trouble, because-"

"It ain't that," he sighs, leaning back in his seat. "I can't lie to ya; I've kinda been avoiding you since New Year's."

That's what I was afraid of.

"Will you tell me why?" I ask. The waitress comes up, takes one look at the two of us, and offers to come back in a few minutes. Rocco stares morosely at her retreating form for several long moments before heaving a sigh and finally meeting my eyes.

"You know I love ya, right? Macho bullshit and all that aside, I love ya, hun. You know about what it's like with Donna and you don't give me shit because of it or treat me bad because of what I do for a living. And you take care of us, all three of us."

"Well, you took care of me when I needed someone to, Roc," I say gently, not quite sure where this is going. "I mean, you literally fed me and made sure I had everything I needed. Nurse of the Year sort of stuff, yeah?"

He flicks his hand impatiently, as if none of that counts against whatever is bothering him. "And I'd do it again in a heartbeat. I just...look, what happened on New Year's Eve...in the alley behind McGinty's...that sorta shit...I…" Rocco huffs impatiently at himself, I guess because he can't think of what he wants to say.

"I ain't used to havin' this sort of heart-to-heart crap. Look, hun, it just creeps me out a little to see you after...that. The way you were in the alley, all shut down and cold. I can understand what you did. Shit, I don't know anyone who wouldn't understand. But your face when you did it...it's like you weren't there, and it creeped me the fuck out."

Huh.

"Well, I'll admit I didn't see this conversation coming." I lean back in the booth, unconsciously mirroring Rocco's posture. "So, just so I'm clear, you're fine with what I did and why I did it, but...you're freaked out over _how_ I did it?"

He nods miserably, toying with a sugar packet. "I ain't judgin' ya, I swear. It's just that, well, I've seen you annoyed and I've seen you pissed off, and I've seen you genuinely angry, but you were just cold that night. Like, not even you any more. And you're the person that…"

He trails off, leaving the sentence hanging in the air long enough that I have to ask, "I'm the person that what?"

"You're the best person I know," Rocco says, his voice quiet. "You smile and you mean it. You laugh because you're genuinely happy. I'm around these assholes all day, really bad people doin' some really bad shit. But you...You do normal stuff and work in a normal office with normal people, and you're a good person. I mean, yeah, don't get me wrong, the boys are great, but they're not exactly angels, y'know, and they can seriously be jerks sometimes, but you...You're nice."

I try really hard to hold back my laughter. I swear, I really do, but it spills out first as a chuckle then a snort, then I can't help myself, and I'm laughing loud enough that the cook sticks his head out of the kitchen to see what's going on.

Rocco frowns and starts to stand, but I throttle down on my self-control and grab his arm, gasping an apology and wiping away tears.

"Roc, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I swear I'm only laughing at you a little. Give me a minute to calm down, and I'll explain."

His frown doesn't lighten up one bit, but he stays. I clear my throat and wipe my eyes again, taking a few deep breaths to calm down. When I can look him in the face without feeling the urge to giggle, I finally speak.

"I have been wrestling with myself over the last weeks over whether I'm a bad person or not, and you've been worried because of how much of a good person you think I am. I didn't mean to laugh so hard, Roc, but sometimes it shocks me how much you can be in my head and yet we're still on opposite pages."

He shrugs, and I get the feeling he doesn't understand what I'm trying to tell him. So I try again.

"Rocco, I am still your friend, and I'm still the same person. I will still be as nice as I can because that's how I feel I should act. But I'm not a saint," I say, all traces of a smile leaving my face. "I'm learning how to take care of myself, slowly but definitely, and I've been asking myself if I would change anything I did that night. When I went back inside, Connor asked me if I could live with what I did or if I was going to feel guilty about it. I told him I could live with it, and I meant it. I don't feel at all guilty about what happened."

Rocco starts to look a little uneasy at how serious I've become, but it's a serious conversation, and I don't let up, even for my best friend.

"Those men were guilty of horrible things, not just what they did to me and Carla and Mary Callahan, but to so many other people. If we had just taken them to jail, what would've happened? Be honest; you know the system better than I do. What would've happened to them?"

He sighs, his shoulders slumping, and answers, "Couple of days of jail time, out on bail until the trial in a few months or even a couple of years, assuming anyone would come forward to press charges and the cops were able to find any actual evidence."

"And most likely even if they went to trial and lost, they'd get a year or two and then be right back out on the street. And what would they keep doing? Hell, what would they do to the people who testified to put them away?"

I gaze steadily at him, and I can see him make an effort to look me in the face. "Rocco, I am your friend, and I love you. I am nice to people because I feel like I should be. But I will be who I need to be to keep myself safe, and if I can keep other people safe in the future by breaking the hands of a couple of violent criminals, then I'll do it, should I find myself in such a situation again. I don't want that to be a wedge between us. I understand if seeing me like that makes you uncomfortable, but I don't want to lose you. You're too important to me."

"Besides," I add, trying to lighten the mood, "who else would stand up to Connor and Murphy with me when they're being assholes? Who else would just know to bring me a sandwich when I haven't eaten all day? Roc, you take care of me, too, and I need you."

He drums his fingers on the table top, deep in thought as the waitress cautiously begins to approach us again. He looks up, not frowning but not smiling, either, and for once I can't get a read on what he's thinking. Just before the waitress gets to our table, I finally ask, "So...are we good?"

"Yeah, hun," he sighs, a tired smile spreading over his face, "we're good. But we're going for dessert after work tonight, and this time the pignolata's on you."

...

**Now: January 22, 1999; lunchtime**

"Roc, can you meet me at the diner? I need to run something by you."

"Sure, hun, when?"

"Fifteen minutes? It's kind of...time sensitive."

"Yeah, I'll head over now.

**-twenty minutes later-**

"So, I have until tomorrow to give them an answer, but I don't...I mean, I know it's not forever, it's only seven weeks, but I don't get weekends off, so I won't be able to come back and visit, and there wouldn't be any time to hang out with the boys if they come up and visit, so really except for phone calls it would be six weeks without them, and I feel like-"

"What?" he laughs. "They'd forget you? Sweetheart, you are way too smart to be thinkin' so stupid. Those boys wouldn't forget you if it was seven years instead of seven weeks. Why are you freakin' out so much? This is great, and there's no way in hell you should say no."

"I know," I say, a small smile finally breaking through the panic. "I'm ninety-nine percent sure I'm going to say yes. I just don't know how to bring it up with Connor and Murphy. Do I just tell them, do I ask if it's cool, what? What do I do?"

"You seriously tellin' me you're thinkin' of, what? Askin' those idiots permission?" He stares at me incredulously, as if I've grown a horn in the middle of my forehead. I finally let out a laugh, and some of the tension in my chest eases.

"Okay, when you say it like that, I can see how I sound ridiculous." The waitress stops by, dropping off two cheeseburgers and fries. As she takes our glasses to refill them, I can feel the worry trying to creep back in. "But...what if...they...I dunno, what if they're mad? I'd literally be leaving them for seven weeks, and you know long distance relationships don't work out."

"I think me and Donna would work out just fine if we were long distance," he grins before taking a huge bite of his burger. "It's less than two months. Long term long distance doesn't work out, but this ain't anything like that. You'll go, you'll learn your shit, and you'll be back in time for St. Patty's Day. They'll miss ya, but they aren't gonna break up with ya over somethin' that's so great for you."

"Yeah, about that," I say, nervously dunking a fry into my ketchup. "The first training is seven weeks, sure, but there are other trips. I'd be traveling for over two months every year. And that's not all."

He stares at me, chewing and waiting.

"The training itself doesn't start until the first week of February...I'd be getting back the Saturday after St. Patrick's Day."

"Oh, hun," he says, his face as serious as he can make it, "I'd bring 'em some whisky and flowers for when you break that news. You're gonna crush their little leprechaun hearts."


	4. Chapter 4

Now: January 22, 1999; after work

“Did she tell ye what she wants t’talk about?” Connor asks, curiosity getting the better of him once more. 

“Nah,” Murphy answers, sinking into Grace’s couch. “Jus’ said t’make sure t’meet her here after we cleaned up from work, an’ she’d be here soon’s she got done fer th’day.” He switches on the television, apparently oblivious to Connor’s concern.

“An’ it didn’t occur t’ye t’ask why she specifically requested our presence, as we tend t’meet her after work damn near every night anyway?” He asks slowly, speaking slowly and measuredly to hide his annoyance. 

“Told ye th’first five times ye asked, ass hat. She said she couldn’t talk right den but wanted us t’meet her at her place after work, an’ she’d see us here. Said it was important.”

Connor starts to say something, then notices the rigid set of Murphy’s shoulders, the tension in his brother’s supposedly relaxed posture. Instead of retorting, he lets out a long breath and drops into the armchair at the far end of the couch. 

“‘M sure she’s just got news from work or somethin’,” Connor says carefully, watching his brother’s attempt at nonchalance as he flicks through the few channels on the television. “Nothin’ t’worry ‘bout.”

Murphy grumbles a neutral, non-response, and Connor knows what he’s thinking.

If it’s nothing, then why would she call when she never calls from work?

They stare blankly at the television, neither of them talking, as the tension builds in the room. Connor feels like ants are crawling all over him, and sitting still will shortly stop being an option if she doesn’t get home soon.

“What did she sound like on the phone?”

“Fer fuck’s sake, Connor, let it th’fuck go!” Murphy explodes, throwing the remote at his brother’s face. Connor is hit squarely between the eyes, and he sits stunned for a moment before launching himself at his brother and tackling him over the arm of the couch.  
…

Then: July 16, 1997; sometime that night

“Jesus, Connor, I’m gonna have a fuckin’ shiner fer a month. Th’fuck’s wrong wit’ye?”

“Lord’s name, asshole, an’ye know damn well what’s wrong! Fuckin’ flirtin’ and tryin’ t’get in wit’ Grace! Fuck’s yer problem? Ye know damn well she’s mine! I fuckin’ brought ‘er home! Keep yer damn hands t’yerself, Murph, I’m warnin’ ye!”

“Yer one t’talk about hands,” Murphy mutters, massaging his cheek. He glares at Connor, his voice rising in volume. “An I ain’t flirtin’ wit’ yer girl, Con. Swore t’ye I wouldn’t pull dat shit wit’ ye again after Heather Dougherty at our graduation party. Ye callin’ me a liar?”

Connor is in Murphy’s space suddenly, crowding him back against the wall, their faces inches apart. 

“I fuckin’ am, Murph. Ye might not even know yer doin’ it, but I see t’way ye look at ‘er. She ain’t yers! Back t’fuck off!”

Murphy is a little stunned at Connor’s explosion and sits silently, staring at his twin until Connor backs away. His brother’s face is red, the forehead vein pulsing, and the tendons in his neck flex as Connor turns from his brother. There's a long, tense silence before Connor speaks again.

“She’s special, Murph. Don’t wanna fuck it up. An’ I know ye ain’t doin’ shit on purpose, but fuck, man, ye flirt when ye breathe. Chicks dig that dark, sullen shit ye got goin’ on. An’ she likes ye, she’s gettin’ as comfterble wit’yeas she is wit’ me, and…damn it, Murph, why?”

This is probably the longest, most emotional speech Murphy has heard from his brother in seven or eight years, and Murphy throttles down his natural urge to give his broth shit. Deeply ingrained as the habit is, Murph just manages not to be a dick.

“She...is special, Con. An’ yer right. Don’t mean to butt in, just find meself takin’ to her an’ imaginin’ t’ings I got no business t’inkin’ ‘bout.”

“Ye can’t let me have one damn t’ing t’meself, can ye?” Connor asks, staring hard at his brother. “We shared ma’s belly, fer Chris’sake, Murph; never had a damn minute t’meself in me life, an’ ye gotta try t’get in on t’best girl I come across. Fuck’s t’matter wit’ye?”

Murphy sighs, scrubbing at his face tiredly with both hands. “I...didn’t mean to. Maybe wit’ Heather, I wanted t’fuck wit’ye a bit, but not wit’ Grace. Wouldn’t do dat t’ye, an’ I wouldn’t do it t’her. I...Jesus, Con, it’s like a fuckin’ chick flick in me head when I t’ink about her, wit’ fuckin’ colors an’ her smile an’ me makin’ flower comparisons, fer Christ’s sake. Ye t’ink I’m proud o’dat? Comparin’ her to roses an’ shit.”

Connor stands rigid, his back tense and his fists clenched, and refuses to answer.

“I ain’t tryin’ t’steal her from ye,” Murphy finally says. “She’s too good fer dat. But I won’t lie; every fuckin’ day, I say a curse o’some sort dat you got put on late shift an’ not me. Ridin’ dat fuckin’ train every night. Guarantee I wouldn’ta waited two fuckin’ months like you did, but either way, ye saw her first. I just...can’t seem t’fuckin’ let it go.”

“Ain’t tryin’ very hard, are ye?”

Murphy recoils from the venom in Connor’s words. But his brother is right. Murphy doesn’t want to let it go, and truth be told, he hasn’t been trying very hard to shake his attraction to the shy girl Connor brought home from the subway. He is telling the truth when he says he doesn’t want to steal her. He can see how his brother feels, plain as day, even if the girl herself can’t, and the last thing he wants to do is spoil things for Connor. If only…

“Ain’t like we can share her, I s’pose,” Murphy sighs, his head dropping back against the couch.

“T’fuck are ye on about?” Connor asks, turning and stalking over to an empty chair. Even though it’s early, eight-thirty at the latest, Connor pulls off his t-shirt and begins unlacing his boots. Murphy can see by his jerking movements that the boots and laces are probably getting the brunt of his frustration.

“Nothin’ dat makes any sense. Just t’ink it’s a shame we can’t share her. Ain’t like we don’t share damn near everythin’ else.”

“We don’t share every fuckin’ t’ing, Murph. We’re twins, not clones.”

“Yeah, and ye ain’t wearin’ me jeans t’day by accident, either, are ye?”

Connor glances down, frowning, and sighs as he kicks off his boots. “Dey were t’closest ones dat didn’t have blood stains on ‘em,” he mutters. “Didn’t really care whose dey were.”

But the idea is planted in Murphy’s head now, and, just like Grace, he can’t seem to shake it.

“D’ye t’ink t’lass would go fer it?”

“No idea what yer yammerin’ about.” Connor is definitely not in the mood to talk anymore as he shoves out of the chair and opens the fridge, emerging with a beer in each hand. He tosses one to Murphy, who catches it easily, reflexive moves for each of them that Connor wouldn’t have done if he’d been thinking instead of just moving. 

Murphy eyes Connor as his brother switches on the ancient television set, twitching the antennas to pick up any sort of signal besides the news. If he can talk this just right, if he can find the right words to not piss Connor off any more than he already has, there’s a very small chance…

“What if she were okay wi’t it?”

“Okay wit’ what?” Connor replies tersely, eyeing Murphy over his beer.

“Wit’ seein’ th’both of us? Wouldja be as pissed den, if she were willin’?”

“An’ how d’ye propose broachin’ t’subject wit’her, genius?” Connor snaps. “Ain’t exactly an everyday conversation. Ye’d mortify her, an’ she’d probably slap bot’ of us before disappearin’.”

Connor has a very good point, but this is exactly the response Murphy was hoping for. Because it’s not a flat-out “fuck off.”

“Well, fer starters, she ends more nights in me bed dan she does in yers. Connor, I ain’t brought a girl home fer months b’cause t’possibility of just sleepin’ next t’Grace trumps fuckin’ pretty much any ot’er woman I’ve ever hooked up wit’. She ain’t shy around me, leastways, no more dan she is wit’ you. She doesn’t even wait for an invitation from me t’get under t’covers most nights; once ye fall asleep and take all her covers, she just pokes me til I wake up. An’ den...she just...I’m fuckin’ sunk, Con. I can’t tell her no, I ain’t got it in me, but it kills me just a little bit more every time I hold her and can’t do shit about it. I know she ain’t mine, I get dat. But...maybe she could be ours?”

There’s a long silence as Connor nurses his beer, staring blankly at the television set. Murphy knows Connor heard him, but there’s nothing more to say until Connor thinks about it. Knowing better than to push things any further (not something this important), Murphy stands and grabs a lighter and a crumpled pack of smokes from the nearest table. Making sure there’s at least a couple of cigarettes left, Murphy stuffs the pack in his back pocket before turning to his brother.

“‘M headed t’McGinty’s. Be back after a while. Just...t’ink about it, Con, aye?”

Murphy learned months ago that drowning himself in whisky won’t get the girl out of his head, but it sure does help pass the time faster. Fast forward four-and-a-half hours, several shots, and some really bad jokes from Rocco later, and Murphy finds himself stumbling through the door of the flat. He moves past Connor’s still form, not bothering to be quiet. Either Connor’s awake, and it doesn’t matter how loud he is, or Connor’s asleep and the second coming of Jesus Christ himself couldn’t wake him.

He starts to strip down, weary to his bones and wishing the lass were spending the night, when Connor speaks.

“Still fuckin’ pissed at ye, don’t t’ink ye’ve gotten out o’t’beatin’ ye rightly earned. But...I c’n understand how ye feel.”

Murphy pauses, perched on the edge of his mattress in the middle of kicking off his boots. 

“What’re ye sayin’?”

“‘M sayin’...let th’lass get more used t’ye, let’er get t’know ye a bit more, an’...be smart about it, aye, Murph? Swear t’God, if ye fuck dis up fer me, if ye scare her off, I won’t ferget about it.”

Connor doesn’t add anything else, and he doesn’t wait for Murphy to reply before rolling over and effectively shutting off the conversation. Murphy sits silently, mulling over Connor’s words for several minutes before finally getting his boots off. He shucks his jeans and flops backwards onto the mattress, staring up at the peeling paint on the ceiling. He has to physically force himself to stay on the mattress. The urge to run out immediately to find Grace is nearly overwhelming, but if there’s one sure way to ruin things with this girl, it’s to spook her. Showing up at her place in the middle of the night wouldn’t exactly be easing the girl into the idea of this unorthodox relationship; Murphy can be logical when he tries.

This time, the image of Grace smiling back over her shoulder at him in McGinty’s is the last thing on Murphy’s mind as he falls asleep.  
…  
Now:

The sound of a key in the lock startles both Connor and Murphy out of their silent, identical brooding. They are separated again, Connor on the sofa and Murphy in the arm chair this time, and both men stand as she enters the apartment. She has a smile, a hug, and kiss for each of them before setting her paper bag down on the counter. She removes a bottle of Laphroaig eighteen year old scotch and holds it in front of her like a cross between a peace offering and a shield.

Connor and Murphy’s eyes widen, first at the quality of the scotch she’s offering, then at the fact that she obviously feels the need to broker peace before even broaching the topic of discussion.

“What’s on yer mind, lass?” Connor says mildly. His eyes meet Murphy’s in silent discussion before they both look back at Grace.

“So, there was a meeting at work today…”


	5. Chapter 5

**Then: January 22, 1999; after work, a little later.**

 

The boys end up taking the news surprisingly well. Even the part about Jen being some sort of undercover plant by the executives sent to actually take over our branch and find someone to replace her as the corporate management trainer.

 

“Upper level espionage shit, that is,” Connor says when I tell them. Murphy smirks as he refills his whiskey glass, and I just stare at them incredulously.

 

“You’re both taking this so calmly,” I finally exclaim. “You’re not, I dunno...pissed or hurt or something?”

 

Another silent twin conversation, then Murphy says, “Lass, ye earned th’promotion ye been waitin’ on fer years. Better dan t’one ye wanted in t’first place, an’ ye deserve it. Why t’hell would we be pissed at ye fer gettin’ what ye rightly deserve?”

 

Well, when he puts it that way…

 

“But I’m going to be gone for a good two months out of the year, at least,” I remind him. “Traveling and such, training people at other facilities. And this first trip where I’m getting _my_ training will make me miss St. Patty's Day again. You guys were pissy...er…upset when I missed it last year because of work, and I know you had big plans this year.”

 

“Aye,” Connor says, reaching over and pulling me into his lap. “Grand plans of going t’mass, going t’work, an’ gettin’ more shitfaced dan humanly possible at McGinty’s later. Grand, elaborate schemes an’ plots.” He nuzzles into my neck, his hands beginning to wander, very nearly derailing my train of thought.

 

“But...I mean, you guys...dammit, Connor, I’m trying to have a serious conversation about this promotion, and I want your serious opinions!”

 

Connor backs away as much as possible, as I haven’t left his lap, and smiles faintly at my outburst.

 

“Love, we _are_ given ye our serious opinions. Ye earned dis job, it’s perfect for ye, an’ we don’t see any reason ye shouldn’t take it. Ye should be as proud o’yerself as we are of ye. Tis a fairly big deal. Dat’s my opinion.”

 

Murphy continues to scrutinize me as I silently sort through Connor’s words.

 

“Grace, what’re ye really worried about?” he finally asks. “Know it ain’t t’job. Ye could do dat in yer sleep.”

 

“I...don’t...I mean, the trips would be for weeks at a time, and...it wouldn’t be like a vacation, I couldn’t just take you with me, and...I mean, you two are acting like it’s no big deal, and I know the answer is of course you would, but you’re acting like you won’t even miss me at all!”

 

“Ye know damn well we’ll miss ye,” Connor murmurs into my hair, pulling me close again. “Miss ye when I’m at work an’ not holding ye. Miss ye when ye run t’th’store ‘cause we ate all yer food again. Miss ye when ye go t’take a shower an’ don’t take me wit’ ye. Daft woman, we’ll miss t’hell outta ye.”

 

“But,” Murphy interjects, dropping next to us on the sofa, “Ain’t gonna let our missin’ ye get in th’way of a damned good job that ye earned. Not gonna stand in yer way or bring down a day that’s supposed t’be about celebratin’ for ye. Now, ye gonna finally act happy about dis promotion, or do we hafta make ye feel happy ‘bout it?”

 

**Now: January 23, 1999; too late to still be at work**

 

Promotion or not, if the work isn’t done, I still have to get it done, which means I’m here well after everyone else, including Jen (my new district executive director), has gone home for the night. There was a fantastic little surprise party for me after I formally accepted the position, and everyone congratulated me, told me how I was perfect for the job, how they were happy for me, how great I would be, etc, etc.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate everyone’s votes of confidence and congratulations. I just want to go home already, but I’ve got a couple more reports to go, so here I am, once more alone at my desk, tired and hungry and cranky and working.

 

Oh, well. Such is life.

 

There’s a knock on the doorframe, and I look up to see Murphy with a drink tray in one hand and a brown paper sack in the other.

 

“Midnight oil delivery, ma’am,” he grins.

 

“Oh, my God, you are my favorite person in the whole world right now,” I moan as my mouth immediately starts watering. “You are fucking saintly, Murphy MacManus.” Murphy grins at my melodramatic statement as he clears a corner of my desk, pulling out sandwiches and pickles before handing me a cup of hot chocolate from my favorite coffee shop.

 

I continue to go through my reports, but with Murphy’s company and a full stomach, the work seems to go much faster. Before too much longer, I’m signing the last page of the last copy of the last file I have to finish tonight, and I sigh in relief. Murphy glances up from the rubber band ball he’s fiddling with.

 

“Done? Ye ready t’go?”

 

“Yeah, I’m done. Just give me a sec to stretch some of these kinks out of my spine so I can stand straight without falling over,” I groan, as I stretch a particularly stubborn pain in my lower back.

 

“Here,” he says. He pulls his chair behind me, settling down with outstretched hands. I eagerly turn my chair around, straddling it so he has full, unimpeded access to my back. “If I’m saintly, might as well use me powers fer good an’ lay hands on ye.”

 

“That was horrible,” I murmur as his fingers dig into the worst of the knots in my back. Warmth radiates out from his fingers, and every tightened knot in my muscles immediately starts to relax, regardless of how close or far away they are from his hands. “But keep rubbing anyway.”

 

“Ye sure?” he asks, pressing rhythmically into the spot where my tailbone meets my spine. “I mean, if ye ain’t enjoyin’ yerself, we c’n do some more reports or file summat. Know how much ye love dat part o’yer job.”

 

His voice is a little lower than usual, but smooth as silk, and I find myself smiling into my arms as I listen to his accent thicken the way it does when he starts to get aroused.

 

“Screw you, MacManus.” It starts as a jokingly snarky comment that turns into a gasp as he rubs me _exactly_ the right way. “Oh, Murphy, how do you always know the perfect way to get rid of that knot?”

 

He doesn’t answer, but even though I’m facing away from him with my face pillowed in my arms on the back of my chair, I know he’s smirking. There’s no way on earth he wouldn’t be.

 

After another few minutes of working on my lower back, Murphy moves up to my shoulders and shoulder blades, and I am in a cloud of absolute bliss. I stretch experimentally under his fingers, and he pauses to let me readjust before moving to my neck and scalp.

 

I don’t think I knew what happiness really was before I met the MacManuses.

 

“I don’t want to stop, but unless you want to collect the puddle I’m about to become in a jar and take me home that way, we need to go before I absolutely melt,” I say, reaching back and placing a reluctant hand on his to still his movements.

 

“Ye sure?” he asks innocently, his fingers pressing gently into the base of my skull.

 

“Sure I want you to take me home and finish what you started here until I can’t walk straight for a week? Hell, yes, I’m sure, Murphy. Move your ass, let’s go!”

 

I’m able to stand now with little trouble, and Murphy moves his chair back to its spot on the side of my desk. I straighten the files and reports into some semblance of order that won’t have me cursing myself when I come back to the office while Murphy tosses out our sandwich wrappers and empty cups.

 

“Murph,” I say as I bend to put a file away in the cabinet behind my desk. “Can you get my coat from behind the door?”

 

I straighten up and turn only to find him right in front of me, my coat and scarf already in his hands, and I can’t help but smile at his boyish, eager grin. His smirk either infuriates me or turns me on, but his smile…

 

I absolutely combust over his smile.

 

“Love ye,” he says, suddenly earnest. He drops my winter gear on my chair and takes my face between his hands, never breaking eye contact. “Need ye t’remember dat. Proud o’ye fer gettin’ yer promotion. I’ll miss t’hell outta ye, but I’d no sooner stand in yer way dan I would leave ye again. Love ye, Grace.”

 

I start to answer, startled by his sudden outpouring, but he kisses me, a faint brush of his lips across my forehead, and my eyes flutter shut as my brain stutters to a halt. Most of my muscles are already a bit jelly-like from his earlier ministrations, and his grip on me becomes a bit firmer as my knees weaken and I’m flooded with warmth. I find my arms around his neck before I realize it, both to steady myself and to pull him just a little closer.

 

His lips travel lower, first touching the spot between my eyebrows, then the tip of my nose. He targets both cheeks and my chin before finally ghosting over my lips. I can’t help the tiny sigh that slips out, and I feel his lips turn up as they press gently into mine. My grip tightens around his neck as his fingers slide against my scalp, tilting my head just so. Murphy deepens the kiss, his tongue plunging eagerly into my mouth as he walks me backwards until I’m pressed against the wall. As focused as I am on his lips and the wonderful things he’s doing with his tongue, I am acutely aware when he wedges a knee between mine and starts to slide my legs apart.

 

“Murphy!” I gasp, pulling away from the kiss as his fingers slide up the front of my thigh. “We can’t do that here! Get me home!”

 

His fingers pause as I push against his hand, but his mouth is more than determined to find my weak points. I don’t really want him to stop, but the last thing I want tonight is to get caught. The warmth from my earlier massage blossoms into a full-body flush as his tongue washes over my pulse point.

 

“Connor’s had more dan his share of ye in public places,” Murphy breathes against my ear as his thumb slides down the seam of my panties, and I swear his nail scrapes over every nerve ending possible on the exposed skin. “Ye seem t’enjoy yerslf wit’ him. Ye _sure_ ye don’t want t’give me a spin?”

 

“I…”

 

“Aye? So dat’s a yes, ye do, or a yes, ye don’t?”

 

“Murphy, you know that isn’t-”

 

He nips my earlobe sharply, and all the air in my lungs locks furiously in place. He takes advantage of my silence to hitch my knee up and around his hip. My skirt hikes dramatically, and if Murphy weren’t completely between me and the door, I know there would be a lot of display for anyone who cared to look.

 

Not that anyone else is on this floor...or even in the building, for that matter. It’s way past when even the diehard workaholics go home for the night. No one’s here.

 

Something in me relaxes, and Murphy’s predatory instinct zeroes in my acquiescence in under a second. He tilts my head sharply to the side, claiming my mouth again, and drags my skirt all the way up to my waist so he can press flush against me. The buttons of my shirt fall victim to his eagerness, but it wasn’t my favorite blouse, so I’m not too bothered.

 

Anyway, I’ve got other things on my mind right now.

 

Murphy doesn’t bother removing my bra, simply dragging the cup down and meeting my breast with his mouth. I arch into his touch, his hand rough against my skin and a perfect contrast to his velvet tongue. My fingers hook into his hair, locking his head in place, although he doesn’t show any intention of moving.

 

The office is still and silent around us, the only sounds our labored breathing and the rustle of clothing. The occasional moan or whispered encouragement escapes one or the other of us, but the weight of the quiet is heady, magnifying the smallest noises and driving me absolutely rabid.

 

I pull Murphy’s face from my breast back to my mouth and reach between us, scrabbling to loosen his belt and open his jeans. He helps me out, not even bothering to hide his smirk at my impatience. I don’t waste time removing his boxers but simply make use of the handy opening, gripping him tightly with one hand and pulling his hips closer to me with the other.

 

Murphy's hands slap the wall on either side of my face, his forehead pressed against mine, as his eyes clench shut. I brush my thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the drop of moisture outward from the tip, and Murphy hisses vehemently.

 

“Yer killin’ me, girl, can’t fuckin’ ever get enough of ye. How can ye do dat wit’ just a touch?”

 

Then he’s gripping my ass and lifting, pinning me to the wall as he slides home. There’s no pause for adjustment as he pulls back and thrusts hard again. My head falls back, knocking against the wall, and Murphy runs his fingers slowly down my exposed skin. The touch is light and teasing, a drastic contrast to his deep, bone-jarring thrusts, and I’m shocked I even notice.

 

His fingers continue their ghosting, gliding almost imperceptibly down until they’re squeezing between us to press against my clit with every thrust. Every stroke pushes me closer, and I’m so near I can taste it, but it’s too soon.

 

“Slow...slow down, Murphy,” I gasp. “God, yes...but...no, slow, down, just…”

 

His movements slow, and he raises his face from my chest to meet my eyes. His pupils are so dilated I can barely see any of the blue, and his face is flushed with exertion as he stares into me.

 

“Grip me wit’ both yer legs, lass,” he murmurs. I do as he asks, gripping fiercely and changing his angle inside me, and my eyes cross at the shift in sensation. Instead of smirking at the noise that squeezes from my lungs, Murphy freezes for a moment, his eyes squeezed tight as he clutches my waist with one hand. He shivers against me before beginning a slow, smooth rhythm.

 

His eyes open slowly, hooded and intoxicated, locking on mine. His free hand moves to my face, his fingers spread wide over my cheek, pressing into my skin before moving back to tangle in my hair.

  
“Gonna miss th’hell outta ye,” Murphy says as his hips meet mine again and again. “Gonna miss ye every second yer gone. An’ when yer here, gonna remind ye...every chance I get why yer gonna miss th’fuck outta me. Gonna love ye til ye c’n feel me even when yer gone. Yer mine, girl; I promised...promised ye, an’ I meant it. Now come fer me, lass.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Then: November 3, 1998**

_ “Mother fucker!” _

Connor snickers as he sheds his work coat, dropping it into a bin and slipping out before Murphy finds a way to switch places with his retreating brother. Murphy is on cleanup duty, and one of the major processing machines decided to spring a major leak in a distinctly awkward area fifteen minutes before the two of them were due to be off. Connor, on the other hand, is not on cleanup duty and sees no reason he should change his plans just because his brother has shit luck.

That doesn’t mean he can’t rub it in just a little before he leaves, though.

“I’ll just tell Grace ye said hi, shall I?”

Murphy’s jaw is clenched as he stares at the god-awful pile of filth pooling out of the machine, and his nostrils flare as he turns his glare on his twin.

“Fuck off, ye bastard, an’ go have yer fuckin’ fun.”

“We will have some fun, th’lass an’ I. We’ll see ye at McGinty’s later, aye?”

“If I ever get out from under dis pile of shit, aye, I’ll be dere. An’ Con…”

Connor pauses, his hand on the door, and glances curiously back. Murphy’s tone has changed, and there’s a regretful, sad look to his eyes.

“Tell t’lass, I’m sorry, yeah? Dat I’ll make it up t’her?”

“Ye gonna get all dolled up an’ take ‘er t’th’ballet an’shit, Murph? Bowties an’such? Maybe get a mani-pedi t’gether?”

Connor ducks outside just in time, and grins to himself at the ominous splat that rattles the closed door behind him.

Now to get ready for his date.

Truth be told, he’s slightly annoyed at his brother’s run of luck. When Grace originally brought up the idea of an anniversary, Connor immediately had grand visions of Lass coming home to her apartment with it all decked out in candles and flowers, soft music playing, a bath already run, all that shit he’d seen in movies that got the main guys laid for days.

And if he’s being honest with himself, he kind of loves the way Grace looks with candlelight flickering over her bare skin.

But when she suggested a double anniversary so the boys wouldn’t have to plan separate things and make extra fuss, that killed that idea. And God help him if Murphy found out that he was even a little into the romantic sort of things he’d just teased him about. Not that he cared what Murphy thought, of course, but defending his masculinity that often would be awfully annoying.

So, now that the alternate plan is in place and it’s too late to go fix up Grace’s apartment, Murph has to go and get stuck cleaning up God knows what, and Connor could’ve had his romantic night with the lass after all.

Damn it, Murphy…

He heads home as quick as he can, not even waiting for the shower to warm up before he jumps under the frigid spray. According to Grace, she’s already off work and waiting at the ice cream shop she likes so much. The sooner he can get ready, the more time he can spend with her. He’s a little apprehensive about going to the antique store with her, as he doesn't have the best history with tiny, old, delicate things, but he figures he can keep his hands to himself for a few minutes, at least.

Thirty minutes later, he’s stepping through the doorway of the ice cream shop. A quick glance around the tiny interior reveals Grace in one of the booths that has a bench on one side and chairs on the other. She’s digging out blobs of whipped cream and licking her fingers clean, and Connor can’t help the warmth and goofy expression that cross his face simultaneously. This woman can turn him into pile of idiot faster than James Dean’s car could go from zero to sixty, and he has no idea how she does it. She hasn’t even looked at him yet, for Christ’s sake. He walks carefully forward, staying behind her, and leans down until his lips are almost on her neck.

“Never wanted t’be a finger more in me entire life.”

The look she turns on him is sunshine on a cloudy day and every other sentimental feeling the Temptations used to sing about. His grin widens when she holds her arms open to him, and he obligingly pulls her up from her seat, squeezing her as tightly as he dares and kissing her soundly.

"Y'taste divine."

 

"Flatterer," she laughs. She glances over his shoulder then back to him. "Where's your dark side?"

 

Connor can't help but grin. "Murph says t'tell ye he's real sorry. There was an accident at th'plant, an' he's gotta stay an' help clean shit up. Couldn't get out of it, so he won't get done 'til seven or so. So ye get two anniversaries after all, an' I get a nice afternoon with me girl all t'm'self."

 

He’s deeply satisfied at the pleased smile that flashes across her face before her look turns concerned.

 

"Was anybody hurt?"

 

"Nah. Just equipment issues, gross shit ye don't want t'hear about."

 

She grimaces as she slides into her vacated chair. "I'll take your word for it."

She’s just sticking a straw into the massive frozen confection when he realizes he can’t stand another second without tasting her again. He drops down, bumping her over a seat and pulling her to him a little more roughly than he intended. Instead of apologizing, he simply kisses her until he’s satisfied that she knows he didn’t mean to rough her up. He finally pulls away, gazing intently at her to make sure she got his apology. She stares at him, lips swollen and pupils dilated, more than a little dazed.

"Love dat whipped cream taste. Can't get enough of it."

 

Before he can follow that witty remark up with a bit of Shakespeare or something equally impressive and romantic, she snatches the last fingerful of whipped cream off the top of the milkshake and smears it across his cheek. Connor opens his mouth indignantly, not about to let an insult to his manhood go unaddressed, but before he can say anything, she grabs one of the cherries and pops it between his lips, flashing him the most falsely (and adorably) innocent eyes he’s seen.

 

"Cherry? Got it just for you…and you can have Murphy's if you want, since he's not coming…"

 

He eyes her intently, working his tongue deliberately over the cherry stem, fully aware of how her eyes are following every flex of his facial muscles. The look on her face when he pulls out the double-knotted cherry stem is worth every ribbing from Rocco and Murphy, especially now that he can tell them he was right that it was more than a stupid party trick.

 

Grace takes the cherry stem with trembling fingers, and Connor wipes his face of, realizing his cheeks are starting to ache a little from all the smiling. He joins her in sucking down the monster of a milkshake, knowing he won’t be able to eat anything sweet for at least a month after.

“Ye ready t’go?”

She nods, taking his hand and practically skipping out the door. He glances up at the sky, wondering if they have time to finish out their date before the rain finally lets loose, but Grace’s attention is elsewhere, so he trudges along dutifully beside her, rattling off every stupid joke he can think of until she’s holding her side from laughing so hard, and people passing them on the sidewalk are staring.

Let them stare. His girl is happy, and that’s all that matters.

They reach the antique store before too long, and Grace practically pulls Connor's arm off getting inside. Once through the door, she abandons him as a woman behind the far jewelry counter calls her over. Connor takes his time following her, glancing around at all the different things in the shop. It’s interesting enough, with bits of statues and furniture and pots and things tucked away everywhere. Fabric is draped along the walls and over furniture, old looking rugs and tapestries and lacy shit Connor can’t even begin to identify. He shakes his head resignedly, glad Grace likes to look at this stuff in the store and not bring it home.

Not one thing in this store would survive a week with him and Murphy around.

He finally moves over to where his girl is standing, and glances down to see just what has her so mesmerized. She’s holding her hand out, fingers spread in the air, looking at a ring the other woman has presumably placed on her ring finger.

Her left ring finger.

Huh.

Well.

Connor’s first instinct is to panic, but that feeling is quelled fast enough that he barely registers it before it’s gone. His second thought is to admire the simplicity of the design. A simple clear stone in the middle, surrounded by some admirably green stones, then another circle of clear stones, all set in a silvery metal that sets off the cool green.

 

His third thought is that he’s not as freaked out by the sight as he should be. Not even freaked out a little. He decides to put that thought away for a little while to talk over with Murphy later and settles on his fourth thought, which is his default setting.

Tease Grace.

"Ye come in here t'try on engagement rings, lass?" His tone is curious and just a little too casual, and he is rewarded by the look of panic that crosses his girl’s face, eerily similar to his own a moment ago. He gleefully watches her fumble through explanations she thinks won’t freak him out, and he’s considering rescuing her from her awkwardness when the woman behind the counter cuts in.

 

"To tell the truth, she comes in here to try on most everything that can fit on her, plus a few things that can't."

 

"You swore you wouldn't tell anyone about that stupid tablecloth!" Grace hisses, her face turning a wonderful shade of crimson.

 

Connor, of course, is delighted to have a new source from which to draw incriminating evidence against Grace, saving the best stories to tell Murphy later. They can never have enough ammo to tease their girl with. How else would she know they care, after all?

After a few minutes, Connor reluctantly winds down the conversation, and Grace just as reluctantly returns the ring. He’s surprised at the genuine regret on her face and takes a second look at the ring as the woman returns it to its little box. She shows Grace a couple of other things, but it’s obvious that Grace only has eyes for one thing in the store right now.

 

A couple of potential customers walk in just then. Grace says her goodbyes to the woman behind the counter and finally allows Connor to lead her out of the store, much to his relief. She turns back, staring longingly across the store at the ring, and Connor makes a decision right then that he and Murphy are going to do whatever they need to get the ring for her, even if they have to save for five fucking years. He has a flash of some of the prices he’d glimpsed on items in the store and amends his timetable to ten years.

He’s not discouraged, though. She’s more than worth it.

 

"If ye want t'go back, I c'n give th'two o'ye some alone time."

 

"Keep that up, and you'll be lucky to get alone time with me tonight," she mutters, tucking her burning face down as she brushes past him. He laughs, holding the door for her, and throws an arm out to snag his girl’s shoulders.

 

"Seriously, though, if ye like th'thing that much…" he trails off hesitantly. There's naught he can do now, but he figures he might be able to come back later and charm the girl inside into some sort of layaway or payment plan. He isn’t actually concerned about the commitment angle of the ring she was looking at; as far as he’s concerned, Grace is it for him. Which is why he's a little surprised at what she says next.

"I wasn't looking at rings to try and force something out of you two. I feel like there's a step or two we might still need to take before we even consider hitting that milestone. Besides," she adds, a faint smirk crossing her face, "I'm fairly certain that unless you two have some weird, legal-loophole, timeshare thing worked out, it might be a tad bit against the law in this country…and I doubt the two of you could even agree on who would do the proposing. You've probably get in a fistfight, and I'd be lucky if the ring survived."

While he fundamentally agrees with everything she’s saying, he is still in default mode and opens his mouth to protest her words. Before he can say anything, she grasps his face on either sides and pulls his head down to her eye level.

"We're fine, I promise," Grace tells him quietly. "We'll get where we need to be when we need to be there. Now quit whining and kiss me already."

...

**Now: January 30, 1999**

“You’ll both be okay while I’m gone? You won’t starve or burn my apartment down or freeze to death?”

“Lass,” Connor sighs, handing her bag to the porter who stows it dutifully on the baggage cart. “We survived a good twenty-five odd years b’fore we met ye. Happens we might r’member some of dose survival skills fer a few weeks til ye c’n get back to us.”

I know he’s right, but there is a knot in my stomach that absolutely refuses to resolve. Over the last week, my dreams have gotten worse; scenes of devastation and rubble, feelings of utter abandonment, and that echoing, ominous voice telling me to let my boys go. It’s gotten to the point where I fight going to sleep, knowing I’m just going to wake up drenched in panicked sweat with a racing heart.

“Know yer worried,” Murphy says, pulling me into another hug. He’s not been able to keep his hands off me the last few of days, to which I have very little objection. “Ye’ll be fine in yer Big Apple, an’ we’ll be fine here in Southie. Ye got nothin’ to worry ‘bout. We can talk on th’phone every night, if ye want.”

“Are you sure you won’t stay in my apartment while I’m gone?” I ask. “It’s supposed to be really cold next week, and--”

Murphy silences my worried ramblings with his lips, and while I can’t help but enjoy the kiss, my stomach still doesn’t settle.

“If the temperature drops below freezing, we’ll stay at yer place,” Connor promises. “But your furniture will probably be safer if we keep our distance when y’ain’t here to referee.”

I know, but…

I glance at the clock and realize I need to board now if I want a decent seat. Jen is already in New York and has promised to meet me at the train station when I arrive. I would never hear the end of it if I missed my train and had to get the next one.

“I love you,” I whisper, blinking hard as I fight the tears that threaten to flood my eyes.

“Grace, everything’s fine. It’s seven weeks, we’ll see ye soon enough. We love ye, an’ we’ll be fine.”

At least they’re perceptive enough to realize I’m not worried about me.

“And you’re not upset with me about missing St. Patrick's Day? I could--”

“Ye could not,” Murphy laughs, holding me out at arm's length. His gaze roams over my face, like he’s memorizing details. “I’ll miss t’hell outta ye. Now go b’fore ye change yer mind.” He kisses me one more time before stepping aside for Connor.

“Nothin’ to rightly worry ‘bout,” he murmurs as he buries his face in my neck. “My hands slip inside his coat, roaming down his back, trying to memorize every contour and sinew. “I love ye, girl. We’ll be fine, an’ we’ll turn fuckin’ flips when ye get back. We’ll have our own St. Patty's Day. No worries.”

Another kiss, and I find myself being propelled toward the train doors. I board numbly, my body on autopilot, and find a decent window seat. The trip is about four hours, but I don’t anticipate needing to get up for anything, and I’d rather have a view. I look down at the platform and spot my boys talking, their coat collars turned up against the wind, deep in conversation. Murphy spots me in the window first and nudges Connor, nodding his head towards me.

Why do I feel like I’m never going to see them again? Dear God, I am so pathetic today.

They both smile at the same time, that beautiful, infuriating smirk that I would be kissing off their faces right now if I weren’t so stupid as to want to go on this trip and further my career.

I have  _ got _ to get my priorities straight.

I don’t wave, though. Without thinking, I press my hand to the glass, staring down at them, and they both raise a hand in return. I nod, satisfied, offer a watery smile in return, and mouth “I love you both” before settling back in my seat without waiting for a reply. I wipe a couple of tears away, sighing at my ridiculousness. I mean, there are pay phones in New York. I can call them as soon as I get off the train, and again when I check into the hotel and get settles in my room. And then maybe before I go to bed tonight.

This is going to be a  _ long _ seven weeks.


End file.
